


Like Home

by bottlefame_brewglory



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, KissCam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 11:37:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8204860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottlefame_brewglory/pseuds/bottlefame_brewglory
Summary: Elizabeth Keen doesn’t usually make a habit of kissing strangers.





	

**Author's Note:**

> “You make me feel so young and carefree,  
> You make me question all that I do,  
> But then you put your arm over me,  
> And baby, I melt into you.” – Like Home, JOY

She hadn’t been to the basketball in _years_.

Sam used to take her to games when she was younger, he’d bundle her into the car, all ready for a big drive and a riveting night ahead. He would buy them a soda and a hotdog each, craning to see the players from high up in the nosebleed section. Her little body would thrum with excitement, perched on the edge of her seat, hands red-raw from clapping excitedly. And by the end of the night Liz would have shouted herself hoarse.

Sam would always tease her about it on the drive home, and all she could offer were squeaky indignant huffs in return.

So when Tom had offered to take her to an NBA match, where the Washington Wizards were hosting the Chicago Bulls, she had readily accepted. Desperate for a night out, desperate for _anything_ that could cut the tension laced through the household. Liz’s work and study had been dragging at their time together, Tom’s patience running thin, understanding something he would never offer her.

Fights and arguments were borne from the simplest of things. Dishes left in the sink, snide comments about ordering takeout two nights in a row, being too exhausted for sex, they were all little embers that would spark into vicious flames of snarled words and slammed doors. Liz’s nerves were grated, bloody and raw, teeth clenched viciously whenever she stepped past the threshold into her _home_ , only to loosen when Hudson happily bounded up to her, tongue lolling.

A night out would be good for them, relaxing, something to take their minds of their currently mundane lifestyle. They would get lost in the crowds, the _roar_ of supporters, the squeak of shoes sliding across the court as hamstrings pulled tight and players skid to a stop. It would be _fun_.

And when they arrive, Liz can’t help but be impressed, the seats that Tom has secured them only four rows from the front. He is chuffed, a smirk stretching his features, eyes sharp as he looks for gratification, admiration. It makes her frown slightly, however, the way he moves through the crowd as if he is superior, brandishing his tickets like a medal. Liz bites down on a remark, a sly comment, not wanting to spoil the evening so early.

Excusing herself, just as they sit down, to go get some beers and food, she is given only a grunt in reply, Tom already too interested in his mobile to pay attention when she inquires as to what he’d like. She sighs and pushes back through the throng of supporters, immersing herself in the sporting culture, a smile tugging at her lips as she listens to the excited babble around her.

Jostled and stumbling slightly, the crowd seemingly splits and Liz feels as if she can breathe fresh air again, the line for food materialising into view as swarms of people clad in blue and red shuffle through the stadium like a line of ants.

And that is when she sees him.

Dressed in a beige three-piece suit, a matching fedora on his head, he cuts a striking figure amongst the casual Joes that surround him. He’s older, broad, his posture found on a man of _power_ , a soft smile found on a man of _life_. With skin that has been kissed golden by the sun, Liz finds herself drawn to him immediately.

It’s instantaneous, the way she averts her eyes when she finds this man already looking at her, through the swarm of colours and people. But their gazes are locked long enough for her to see the twitch beneath the blazing green of his eyes, the way he gnaws at the inside of his cheek. And then he is turning to the young girl stationing the till and purchasing two ice-creams, his smile warm and sincere before he disappears off into the crowd.

Liz can’t understand the hollow feeling in her chest as she gets to the front of the line, numbly putting cash down in front of the girl serving her. Her eyes scan the crowd, seeking a beige fedora and a smile that had made her heart twist. It is sheer luck that she makes it back to her seat without dropping her food or spilling her beer, passing Tom his hotdog in a daze, not noticing when he takes it from her without saying thank you.

Sitting down, she focuses on her food, munching away and relishing in the nostalgia that comes with her small feast, feeling as if it is Sam sitting beside her, and not the man she is supposed to be spending the rest of her life happily married to.

And so distracted is she, she doesn’t notice when the empty seat next to her become occupied, or the way the man stares at her for slightly _too long_ before swallowing hard and turning back to the man beside him, icecream in hand. No, she only notices when he places a fedora on his knee.

Then she falls very, very, still, subtly dragging the back of her hand over her lips and wiping at the specks of sauce and crumbs. There is a sense of pride that flows through her when she lifts her head and manages to offer him a small smile, like all other spectators manage to do at basketball games, a sense of camaraderie swelling through the stadium as the teams burst onto the court.

When he smiles in return she quickly returns to her drink, ignoring the blush that creeps up her throat and blossoms on her cheeks.

Commotion breaks out in the crowd and Liz finds her eyes drawn to the blazing TV screen, graphics in the shape of a sickly pink heart and a couple passionately kissing displayed. A giddy laugh escapes her; she’d always been a fan of the Kisscam, the nerves and excitement of it twisting in her stomach, the constant battle of _wanting_ to be picked and the sheer _embarrassment_ of it.

And as if the thought has summoned the will of the cameraman, Liz’s face is suddenly splashed across the screen, Tom beside her, still buried in his mobile phone, completely oblivious. The heat from before burns up her neck, and the grin on her face makes her cheeks ache.

“Tom,” she says excitedly, slightly breathless from nerves, only to receive no reply at all.

She tries again, this time reaching over to place a hand on his arm, snatching it back as he shrugs her off and snaps,

“Just give me a minute, Liz!”

Biting at her lip and swallowing down the shame and embarrassment, her face still shining bright on the television, she shakes her head at the screen, fighting back hurt tears. There are jeers around her, other supporters frown at Tom, aiming obscene gestures his way, all going unseen.

And then Liz feels a warm palm press atop her thigh, and she’s turning to the man beside her, the man with emerald green eyes and a pink tongue that darts along soft lips. He shifts in his seat to face her, his other hand gently reaching out to delicately brush her hair aside, before gliding across her collarbone, down her cheek and across her lips, which she feels part involuntarily.

There is that soft smile again, as he slowly leans forward, shifts ever closer on his seat until they’re pressed together. Liz can feel the soft puffs of his breath over her face, can smell the cologne that clings to him, can hear the cheers of the crowd.

And then he is kissing her, sweet and gentle, one hand cradling the back of her neck, the other drifting from her thigh to her waist to pull her impossibly closer. And Liz is kissing him back, reaching up to trace her fingers over his cheek, not being able to help the way she smiles into his mouth, or the pleased noise she makes in the back of her throat. When he pulls away, teeth tugging at her bottom lip, she can barely bring herself to open her eyes, breathing a little too heavily, still clutching at the material of his vest.

He leans forward, presses his lips to her ear and whispers,

“Enjoy the game, Lizzie.”

And then he is gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something that was prompted by Gregwillray, who basically drives my muse.


End file.
